


Rules of the Game

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Grinding, Non-Graphic Smut, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 19:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13841907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: There are rules, things he’s explained to her dozens of times, but she can’t find the one that matches the commentary spewing from the TV. She doesn’t care about those rules, she can’t say she ever has, she only cares about the ones that end with them both naked and sated.





	Rules of the Game

**Author's Note:**

> I could've sworn I'd posted this, but I can't find it so here you go. It's not a fit, canonically, with the show so no spoilers. Warnings for minor language and quasi-sex.

It's Friday night and he's yanking at his tie before the lights go down. There's a chance they’ll catch the start of the nervous tugging on air, but she's too distracted cleaning up the mess of notes that scatter the control room to chastise him.

He’d asked for her keys earlier in the day and she knows his stuff will be waiting for them. She isn’t sure why his agreeing to spend the weekend at her place makes her so nervous. She'd always spent the night at his place, not the place he has now, but the one before that, a cozier space filled with the trinkets and knickknacks she’d bought him. The key clicks in the lock and she forces herself to stop and breathe. He’d been here the other night. He’d seen the piles of clothes on the floor in the closet and the crooked mirror over the bathroom sink. He's not expecting some embodiment of perfection, but that possibility is hard to let go of.

*

"Do you mind if I put the game on?" It's going on ten o'clock and she's not sure her cable package has anything other than the news but she tosses him the remote and heads into the bedroom to change.

When she comes back, he's sitting on the couch with a bottle of beer she knows she hadn't owned that morning and a bowl of peanuts on her end table. "Did you find it?"

"It's abysmal," he smiles and pats the space beside him. 

*

Somehow she ends up in his lap. The mechanics of it all elude her, but they have something to do with offensive behavior and the rules of football. Knees splayed, legs on either side of his, she has one hand on his shoulder, the other pressed against the back of the couch, trying to steady herself.

"Much better." He says and she wonders if he means the view or the game, because she has to admit she's enjoying this more than she would another sports lecture.

One of his hands slides up from her waist and tangles in her hair. His eyes are on the game but all of his attention is on her when he scratches at her scalp. The slow drag of his nails makes her skin tingle as she whimpers. It's been days now since they’ve started doing this, flirting with the possibility of something more than just words. It's a slow build and it's killing her.

"We could go out for breakfast in the morning." He suggests when the game breaks for commercial and she squirms in his lap. She's pressed up against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, breathing against the side of his neck.

There's not much between them, her leggings, his jeans, a pair of thin t-shirts with matching logos. He's keeping her close, the hand on her waist slipping down to her ass, pushing her forward when she wiggles back. "I'm sure there's a place around here that does a proper English breakfast if IHOP isn't pretentious enough for you."

"Just because I don't want Egg McMuffins—" she abandons the line of thought in favor of sucking a mark on the side of his neck. It's been almost ten minutes of this, ten minutes of nothing, and she's hoping they could get on with it.

She scrapes her teeth against his skin and feels him shudder, but he doesn't move. He keeps his eyes on the game and his hand in her hair.

She scoots back with a frustrated growl and leans more comfortably against his chest. His hand slips under the edge of her shirt, long fingers tracing invisible patterns on her skin.

"Will," she asks when the game's resumed yet again and he's making offhanded comments about both teams. "How long is this game?"

"It’s hard to say. There’s a set amount of time, generally, in each quarter—"

"I have DVR."

"It's the third quarter."

"Does that mean it's almost done?"

"I don't know, Mac." He sounds a little bored. He's doing it on purpose. He has to be, Will likes his sports, but he likes her more, at least he used to, particularly when she was like this, practically begging him to fuck her.

"Could we maybe watch it later?" She suggests carefully, knowing she’s toeing a line they haven’t yet crossed.

The hand in her hair stills and he takes his gaze off the TV long enough to look at her and shake his head.

"Will," she's whining now, the fingers on her ribs raising goosebumps.

"They haven't made the first down. The defense is too strong. They can't score if they don't make the first down."

"Billy, please."

"That's the second thing you need to know about football. There's a couple of other things you need to know but we'll get to that later."

"Is there a rule about players having sex during the game?"

"That's generally frowned upon on national TV."

"That's not—"

"I haven't taken you out on a date yet."

"What?" She's trying to twist around to get a better look at his face, but all she manages to do is end up pressed up against him again.

"I want to do this right."

"We've gone on dates. Lots of dates. We went out to lunch." She's trying feebly to play his game, to stop from exploding in frustration. "This afternoon, we went out to lunch. I had that sandwich and you, you—" she bites her bottom lip hard and swallows down a whine. "I need this, Will."

"I know." He's whispering now, gentle almost coaxing, brushing his hand against her flushed cheek. "But I need to do this the right way."

"You're a fucking bastard." The words are out, all sharp and pointy edges, before he has a chance to finish. "You tease me, wind me up and the tell me I'm shit out of luck. What sort fucking of gentleman do you think you are?"

"Mac," he sighs and then he's kissing her, her face between his hands. She shoves angrily at his shoulder but he still lingers over the kiss, his nose brushing hers. "I need this too."

She knows he takes sex a lot more seriously than she does. He's had his share of one night stands, but she knows he prefers something more intimate, monogamous. He's still looking for that, trying to find that connection in the mess of pieces they're trying to put back together. She doesn't blame him for that, she never would, but it's frustrating and she's never had much patience with his teasing.

He kisses her again and then slides his hand up the inside of her thigh as he leans his head back against the wall to watch her. Maybe this is what he's looking for, maybe this is what he needs to see, the look of absolute longing on her face, the look she's been trying to hide in every glance and every gaze for the last two and a half years. But then again maybe it's not what he's looking for, what he's waiting for, because she's staring at him and he's still watching.

"It's all right." He murmurs, his hands on her hips now, guiding her. She grinds down against him and he's hard, so hard that she wonders if maybe when he’d said tomorrow he'd meant today because he's never been good with self-control when it came to her, to them.

She grinds down against him harder, relishing in the friction his jeans create, the slide of spandex against her skin. She whines, nips at his ear but his attention is focused back on the game, steely, neutral. He’s not giving into the urges that are driving her mad. It should piss her off, but she’s too close to falling apart to care.

There’s a hitch in every breathe, his hands burned into her hips, his amused chuckle at whatever stunt they’re trying to pull on TV. There are rules, things he’s explained to her dozens of times, but she can’t find the one that matches the commentary spewing from the TV. She doesn’t care about those rules, she can’t say she ever has, she only cares about the ones that end with them both naked and sated.

“Will,” she swallows, squirming determined, “Billy.”

One of his hands leaves her skin and the volume on the TV falls to a whisper. 

“MacKenzie.” 

He says it so softly, so tenderly she has to bit her lip to keep from blinking back tears. She’s always had a hard time keeping her emotions in check when they’re like this: tender and soft and greedy. “It’s all right, go ahead.”

She frowns at him, and then gasps moaning as his hand slides low across her ass.

“Go ahead.” He repeats and the world goes silent as she slumps, mumbling his name against the shell of his ear over and over again.


End file.
